


Honor

by duchess325



Series: The Baker Street Chronicles [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Dark Sherlock, F/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Other, Paternal Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9098629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchess325/pseuds/duchess325
Summary: Sherlock finds out about one of Molly's dark secrets and sets out to right a wrong done to her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place a few weeks after Sherlock’s return to London and the events of The Empty Hearse. I don’t even really know how I came up with it. I think I wanted Molly to have some sort of fandom tattoo, so I put that in the story The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes. Then I thought, “What if Sherlock became a little obsessed with it, trying to see the appeal of the Harry Potter.” Then, what if he found out that John knew about it? Hmmmmmm……And somehow this story sprang forth. I honestly never intended to take it in the direction that it went, but perhaps somehow I feel a bit akin to Molly and feel that there is so much going on beneath the surface that we don’t know about.
> 
> Much love, by the way, to my dear friend, Jerry, who helped me describe the sound of cards shuffling. ;)

John walked into Sherlock’s flat, which was in its usual state of disarray. Sherlock was sitting in his arm chair, his impossibly long legs folded up in the chair, his knees bent before him. His fingertips were pressed together telling John that Sherlock was deep in thought. His gaze into some unknown distance remained unbroken as John shrugged off his coat.

“I said, pass me that book,” he said, still gazing ahead.

“When did you say that?” John asked with a quizzical look on his face.

“Oh, about an hour ago,” Sherlock replied.

“You do realize I don’t live here anymore, don’t you?” John asked incredulously. “I just walked into the flat.”

“I thought you seemed more insightful than usual,” Sherlock said.

John sighed defeated. “Right, then. Which book did you want?” he asked, glancing about the sitting room, spying a wide variety of titles such as _Forensic Entomology_ , _Crime Scene Forensics_ , _Compositions for the Violin_ , _The Pharmaceutical Handbook_ , and _Natural Wool Dyes_.

“The one here on the side table.”

John swiveled around to see a book splayed open on the table beside Sherlock’s chair. “Of course,” he said crossing the room, frustrated. He picked up the book and glanced at the cover. He chuckled, “ _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_?” He glanced down and saw the other six titles in the series in a haphazard stack beneath the table.

“What? Why did you laugh?” Sherlock asked.

“Just doesn’t seem like your type of book, that’s all. All the fantasy bits. Not very logical.”

“It’s research.”

“For a case?” John asked eagerly.

“Personal.”

John furrowed his brow and handed the book to Sherlock. He had known him long enough to not enquire any further. Sherlock would tell John on his own time if it was important. A few moments later he was not disappointed.

“John,” he began, “why do people waste their time on this drivel?”

“Well, children like that sort of thing. Normal children. And you know it’s not exactly drivel I suppose. It’s made a lot of people pick up a book again. Adults included.”

“That’s my point!” Sherlock shouted finally looking at John. “Adults are reading this! There are groups and forums and conventions, for God’s sake! Why?! What is the appeal?! And the books just get longer and longer. They are filling up my hard drive with rubbish. If I wasn’t so brilliant they would probably drop my IQ just holding them.”

“Yes, I see. Why are you reading them again?”

“I told you, research.”

“I haven’t read any of them myself, but I’ve caught some of the movies on telly. I think the escapism appeals to people. It’s the elements of fantasy and magic. Doesn’t everyone long for a bit of magic in their life?”

Sherlock looked at John with bewilderment in his face. “No!”

John sighed in resignation as he dropped into his arm chair across from Sherlock.

“So any cases?” John asked.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock answered, nodding at the book in his hand.

“Yes, well, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson appreciates you for not shooting holes in her walls. And hopefully you are staying out of other types of trouble as well.” He glanced around the sitting room trying not to seem conspicuous or suspicious. He made a mental note to himself to check some known hiding spots and some new ones, just to be thorough.

Sherlock had flopped the book back on his side table and was now tapping on his mobile phone. He scrolled, hmmm’d, sighed, and rolled his eyes. Suddenly he jumped up and grabbed his overcoat from a nearby chair.

“Where are you going?” John asked curiously, hoping there might be a case.

“Out,” Sherlock answered curtly.

“Should I come along?” John knew better than to sound as if he wanted to come along. “A lead on a case?”

“No, just a bit of personal business. I shouldn’t be long,” he answered, winding his scarf around his neck.

John really didn’t know how to ask his next question. He was hesitant, but Sherlock had his hand on the door.

“You’re not going to—“

“While I freely admit that I am quite bored, I told you that I am doing some personal research. I shouldn’t be long. And don’t go snooping around while I’m out, especially in the skull.” With a swirl of his coat he was out the door.

John stood up and crossed over to the window and watched Sherlock emerge from 221B Baker Street and hail a cab. He was quite eager to have a poke around, but decided this once to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, especially since he seemed to have something on his mind. John couldn’t imagine what kind of research Harry Potter was, but he knew it couldn’t be too long before it made better sense. For now, he appeased his curiosity by checking the skull, which of course was empty.

John was writing up some cases on his blog when Sherlock came breezing back into the flat about an hour later. Sherlock didn’t speak but went straight to his bedroom and closed the door. John turned back to his blog. He was happy to see that his sister Harry seemed to be regularly reading it, though he found that he had to often moderate her comments. As he was deleting one such comment his mobile rang. It was Mary. They were chatting a few moments when John heard an odd sound coming from Sherlock’s room.

“Hold on for just a moment, Mary,” John said as he listened carefully. It was the sound of a stiff flutter, as if some winged, artificial creature was desperately trying to escape Sherlock’s room. It was quick and then it stopped. Tap, tap, tap. flutter. Tap, tap, tap, flutter. Then it stopped.

“John?” Mary voice called from his mobile.

“Yes, yes. Um, may I ring you back? I just need to check on something.”

Quietly he walked down the hall and paused outside Sherlock’s door. He could hear Sherlock mumbling something, but it was too low to make out what he was saying. Then the sound again. Tap, tap, tap, flutter. Tap, tap, tap, flutter.

“What the bloody hell?” John said. _Oh, that wasn’t in my head_ , he thought as soon as he had said it aloud.

Sherlock’s room went silent and then the sound of footsteps quickly stormed across the bedroom. The door was torn open, and Sherlock was fuming.

“YES?! May I help you?”

“Noth-nothing,” John stammered. He tried to get a peek into the bedroom, but Sherlock filled the door frame with his tall, lanky body. “I just thought I heard something. Never mind.”

“I told you I am doing research! Can you not get that into your simple little brain?”

“Now listen, mate, there’s no need to get all worked up like that and insult me. Wait, I forgot to whom I was talking. Carry on with your research. I’m going out for a sandwich.”

John turned on his heel as Sherlock continued to stand in the door fuming.  
“It’s research!”

As John reentered the sitting room he was startled to find Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting on the sofa.

“Sorry, John. I knocked on the door, but no one answered.”

“Oh, no problem. Could I get you some tea?”

“Thank you, yes. Is Holmes in? I’ve got a case that I’d like for him to take a look at.”

Sherlock appeared at that moment. “Inspector. Did I hear you say you have a case?”

 

An hour later the three men were standing in the morgue at St. Bart’s looking over a body with Molly Hooper.

John glanced over at Sherlock and, doing a double-take, asked him, “Did you change shirts before we left?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, you did change your shirt. You had a white shirt on earlier and now you are wearing a purple shirt. You changed your shirt when you went back to your bedroom to get your coat.”

“Yes, I changed shirts! The other was dirty. Why are you making such a big deal of this?” he blustered. “And, by the way, it’s plum, not purple. Now let me take a look at the body.”

Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and carefully inspected the body, lifting the sheet here and there. He mumbled a few notable things about the body, which John jotted down in a notepad. Finally, Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Well, what do you think, Holmes?” he asked him.

“What do I think? Hmmm….” He answered mysteriously. Lestrade glanced at John who just shrugged. “I think that Molly here would like to see a magic trick.” Sherlock pulled a deck of cards from his pocket which he allowed to flutter from one hand to the other.

John, Lestrade, and Molly looked at one another in complete and utter confusion.

“I’m sorry, but does that have something to do with the case,” Molly asked. “Did I miss something on the body, and is this your clever way of pointing it out to me to make me look a fool?”

  
“No,” Sherlock answered.

John studied him for a moment and realized that Sherlock looked hurt by Molly’s accusation. This was new.

“No,” Sherlock said again. “I was going to show you a magic trick. Don’t you like magic tricks? I thought you liked magic tricks,” he said anxiously.

John furrowed his brow as things started to click into place in his head. “Oh, bloody hell! This is about Molly’s tattoo!”

“Molly has a tattoo?!” Lestrade exclaimed.

Molly flushed bright red and shook her head in disbelief. Sherlock turned suddenly on his heel to face John with a look on his face that didn’t fit anything John had ever seen from his friend. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at John.

“How do you know about her tattoo?” he asked suspiciously.

John suddenly realized that he shouldn’t have blurted that out. Obviously anyone that had seen Molly’s tattoo had been in an intimate situation with her. Of course he had worked out how Sherlock knew, but he couldn’t bloody well tell Sherlock that he saw it when he had delivered Molly’s baby. That was not his secret to tell.

“It was after we faked your death,” Molly spoke up suddenly.

Oh, bollocks, John thought. What is she doing? Sherlock will never forgive me if she is going to say what I think she is going to say.

“I was not in a good place,” Molly continued. “It was a big burden to bear, being the one to help you, and I couldn’t tell anyone.

“I was drinking a lot back then to deal with…everything. I was out one night at the pub and I had too much to drink again, but luckily, I ran into John and he took me home. I was in quite a state, actually, but he was a perfect gentleman, as usual. I was so out of it that the bartender, Reggie, had to call a cab for us even though we were just a few blocks from my flat. We first tried to go into the flat next door because I couldn’t even tell which was which. John helped me to my bedroom, but I couldn’t walk very well. I was slipping and stumbling and John was trying to keep me upright, but suddenly there I was in the middle of the floor with my dress over my head, and, well, that’s how he saw my tattoo.”

John looked nervously at Sherlock, while Sherlock sized up Molly and considered her explanation. Molly shifted uncomfortably and Lestrade was just still dumbstruck by the idea that Molly had a tattoo.

“Obviously,” Sherlock finally said. “Obviously that must be how he saw the tattoo. Yes.” His stance relaxed, but John sensed that there was something more behind the expression on his face. John had known Sherlock a long time, and he knew that he was not easily fooled.

“I still don’t understand why you brought a magic--,” Molly started, but an almost imperceptible shake of John’s head stopped her. “Never mind,” she finished. Everyone stood in an uncomfortable quiet.

“So what is it then? What kind of tattoo does Molly have?” asked Lestrade, breaking the silence.

“I think we need to go now,” John said.

 

Later, in the cab back to Sherlock’s flat, John was the first to finally speak.

“It’s not what you are thinking, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Between Molly and I. It’s not what you think.”

“We have established that you were taking her home when she was in an unfortunate inebriated state. She fell, skirt went up, and there you go.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“Then tell me what I do believe, John. No, don’t, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Obviously I have no reason to care about the how’s and why’s of it all. I have better things to fill my mind with than to fret over who Molly Hooper is boffing. It’s inconsequential to me,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Now, just a moment, Sherlock. I told you that it was not like that and so did Molly. We were not boffing! And you say you have no reason to care about the how’s and why’s, but let’s face it, Sherlock, it was no accident that you saw that tattoo!”

“It meant nothing to me,” Sherlock said quietly.

“You keep telling yourself that. I know you have put a lot of effort into making yourself into this inhuman dickhead, to protect yourself or whatever, but you forget that I know the real you. I know that there is a heart beating in there and it is capable of love. Hell, you wouldn’t admit it, but you love me. I’m the only friend you have. You have to.”

They rode the rest of the way to the flat in silence.

The silence continued the rest of the afternoon as Sherlock sat in the kitchen poring over Lestrade’s case file and John sat in the sitting room finishing his blog posts. As evening fell, and John closed his laptop, Sherlock appeared and sat down in his arm chair.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

“Yes, well, that does happen from time to time. What, specifically, was I right about?”

“About you being my only friend, and about me loving you. I do have a capacity for love, however, I see love, especially romantic love, as an unnecessary fallacy.

“This notion that a person needs someone, a companion, to love is illogical. Even for sex love is not a necessity. I would even go as far as to say sex is unnecessary, for me at least. The objective of sex is procreation. I hardly believe, as I’m sure you would concur, that the world needs another Sherlock Holmes.”

John shifted uncomfortably, but Sherlock continued.

“If we look at sex as a means for pleasure, once again, love is not a prerequisite, and I could very well manage it myself, so to speak.

“In the end, it is my deduction that love will hurt you, one way or another. That day that Moriarty and I were on that roof, I had to sacrifice myself to save the ones that I love. If Moriarty had even an inkling of my feelings for Molly, she too would have had a gun pointed at her that day.

“But just so you know, John, I believe you when you say that nothing happened between you and Molly. I want you to know that I believe you. I know that there is an innocent reason that you know about her tattoo and it had nothing to do with you taking a drunk Molly home from the pub. However, that story that she told us was not entirely a lie and that’s what has been troubling me.”

John sat down opposite Sherlock. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Think about it, John. That story came to her lips easily and with such detail, right down to the bartender’s name, the fact that they had to take a cab, and that she couldn’t even remember where she lived. Yes, all of that really happened to her, but I am afraid that it didn’t end quite as innocently as it would have with you.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock. You don’t think--”

“Yes, I do.”

 

When John left the flat at midnight Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his fingertips pressed together in thought. For nearly two hours he lay there in deep contemplation before he quietly got up, put on his coat and scarf, and set off into the night. A taxi took him to Bethnal Green.

Sherlock stood across the street from a dimly lit pub and watched as the night’s last customers stumbled out and the waitress locked the door behind them. Sherlock waited. Two waitress left together, followed by the kitchen staff. Finally, the lights were turned off and a man in his later twenties exited and turned to lock the door behind him. Sherlock jogged up to him and flashed him what would be construed as a friendly smile.

“Sorry mate, we’re closed,” the man told him.

“Yes, it’s just I think I left my scarf in the loo earlier. Made it almost all the way back to my flat before I realized it. My girlfriend will kill me! It was a gift.”

The guy eyed him, probably sizing up what sort of threat he might be. Finally, after a moment’s hesitation he relented.

“Thank you so much!” Sherlock called to him as the guy flipped the lights on for him. In the men’s loo Sherlock pulled his scarf from one of his large coat pockets and tied it around his neck.

“See you found it,” the guy said as Sherlock emerged.

“Yes, right where I left it. Say, do you happen to know a chap named Reggie who may work here?”

At this the guy eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “Depends on who’s looking for him. You know, I don’t remember seeing you in here tonight, and you’re kind of a stand-out kind of fellow, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” Sherlock asked with a quizzical smile.

“I don’t remember seeing that scarf either when I washed up earlier,” he continued. “So do you mind telling me what you’re really doing here?” he asked as he edged behind the bar. His hand deftly reached under the counter.

Suddenly there was a click as Sherlock pointed a British Army Browning L9A1 at him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sherlock warned him. “You see, Reggie, you’ve done something to hurt someone that I …know. I don’t like that.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the bar as Reggie slowly raised his hands in the air.

“Listen, mate, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, “then what do you know about Molly Hooper?”

“Molly who?” Reggie asked.

“Molly Hooper. Age 33; long mousy brown hair, parted on the left-hand side; lips a bit too small for her face. Talks a lot, usually gibberish, despite being a highly intelligent pathologist. Ring any bells yet?”

“Yeah, yeah, but I haven’t see her around here in about a year now.”

“Yes, I imagine she stopped coming around right after the time you sexually assaulted her.”

“Whoa, mate, I don’t know what this Molly has been telling you, but I didn’t assault anyone.”

“So Molly Hooper was never in your pub so inebriated that you had to call a taxi to drive her home?”

“Sure but--”

“And you didn’t accompany her home that night, first to the wrong flat because she was so drunk she didn’t know where she was, and then to the correct flat where she couldn’t even walk to her bedroom?”

“Well, yeah, but what happened was I helped her to bed and she kind of started kissing me-”

“She was drunk!”

“She didn’t say no!”

“My god!” Sherlock yelled as he fired the gun over Reggie’s shoulder.

“What the bloody hell?! Are you crazy?”

Sherlock pocketed his gun and was around the bar in a few quick steps. Reggie tried to back away but tripped over a box of empty liquor bottles. Sherlock grabbed him by his collar and pushed him into the liquor shelves behind the bar. Bottles smashed at their feet.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Reggie yelled.

“Molly was drunk that night, thanks to you, and you took advantage of her!” Pow! He hit Reggie in the face as hard as he could. The bottles rattled on the shelves behind him. Sherlock continued pounding on his face.

“Please stop!” Reggie pleaded feebly. By this time he was on his knees and only Sherlock’s grip on his collar was keeping him upright.

Sherlock let him fall to the ground and kicked him in his ribs. He bent down and grabbed Reggie by the hair on the back of the head, forcing Reggie to look him in the face.

“Don’t you ever touch her or anyone else again. And when they ask you who has done this to you, tell them it was Sherlock Holmes.” With that he gave Reggie one more kick and turned and walked out of the pub.

There was a steady drizzle outside now. Sherlock turned up his coat collar, but he did not call for a cab. Instead he walked, purposefully, for three blocks north. His hand was throbbing and would likely be swollen soon. In the distance he could hear the sirens of police cars and an ambulance. He crossed the street and went one block more, stone faced, contemplating. He was soon standing outside Molly’s flat, staring up at her bedroom window. He considered for a moment knocking or buzzing, but for what? To say he was sorry to have placed upon her the burden of lying about his death? To apologize for years of treating her as an inconsequential acquaintance and being so cold and indifferent to her? To tell her that the night they spent together before he disappeared meant something to him, and in fact, kept him going many times while he was gone? To admit that he didn’t know how to love and was too scared to learn?

Sherlock thought of all of these things at three o’clock in the morning on the sidewalk outside of Molly’s flat as the rain fell harder. He finally turned away and began walking home. A little over an hour and a half later he finally arrived home where he showered and put on dry clothes, sat in his armchair, sent a few text messages, and waited.

Several hours later Lestrade and Donovan showed up. Mrs. Hudson, still in her dressing gown, showed them up to Sherlock’s rooms. Sherlock hardly looked up whenever they entered.

“Just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Freak?” Donovan asked as they approached him.

“Is it true?” Lestrade asked him, hoping against hope that Sherlock would say that it wasn’t.

Sherlock looked up at him but said nothing.

“Yeah, I don’t suppose your knuckles got banged up like that playing the violin, now did they?” Donovan asked sarcastically.

“Donovan, why don’t you just wait downstairs,” Lestrade suggested forcefully.

Donovan glared at Lestrade for a moment and then flashed her eyes angrily at Sherlock before turning tersely on her heel and storming out of the flat.

Lestrade dropped into the armchair opposite Sherlock and sighed.

“What the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock?”

“I’m sure Mr. Van Camp must have told you,” he said, almost coy.

“Yeah, well, he said you forced your way into his pub when he was closing early this morning, you took a shot at him, then beat the bloody hell out of him.”

“And did he give any reason or explanation for why I may have ‘beat the bloody hell’ out of him?”

“Well, that’s the interesting part, you see, because he told the officers who reported to the scene that you were a jealous ex-boyfriend who got pissed off when he took you former girlfriend out. Obviously when I heard that I called bullshit, but he positively identified you, right down to your damned scarf. So I’ll ask you again, what the bloody hell is going on?”

“Obviously Mr. Van Camp was not going to tell you the true nature of our meeting or the fact that he is a sexual predator.”

“A sexual predator? You mean he—did he try something with you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s ludicrous assumption.

“What is it like inside that brain of yours Inspector? I should think it must be like being on holiday all the time.”

“Sorry,” Lestrade mumbled.

“Reggie Van Camp took advantage of a young lady who had been a patron of his work establishment, and I dare say that she was not the first. This particular young lady had a bit too much to drink, thanks to Mr. Van Camp’s obliging nature. Probably even slipped her something into her drinks. Once she was stumbling down drunk he offered to take her home, where, unable to fight off his advances, he raped her.”

And there it was, that word. Saying it out loud made it real. It forced Sherlock to think about the horrible reality of what had happened to Molly. It forced the guilt into a knot at the back of his throat.

  
“So who is the woman? Is she a client of yours? Why didn’t she come to the police?”

“She was ashamed when it happened. She was carrying many other burdens at the time as well. It was over a year ago now—no more than a he-said-she-said with no evidence. But I knew there were probably others and would be more if I didn’t do something to stop him. I got carried away, but I do not regret it.”

“Right, then. You know I’ve got to arrest you, Sherlock. I requested that it be me. I’ll see what I can do, but, dammit you’ve gotten yourself into a real mess this time. You damn near killed him.”

With that Lestrade stood up and Sherlock did as well. He picked his coat up from the arm of his chair, slipped it on and turned around to be cuffed. As Lestrade put the handcuffs on there were footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“Ah, Watson, I see that you got my text,” Sherlock said calmly.

“What’s going on? Why are you arresting him? Is this about drugs?” John asked looking about the flat.

“Really, John? I get arrested and you immediately think it’s a drug bust? Assault and probably attempted murder, thank you very much. Oh, Mycroft will be expecting a call from you, if you please.”

John stood looking shocked and perplexed.

“Just follow us down to the station, John,” Lestrade told him. I’ll fill you in when we get there.

 

Later at the police station John sat with Lestrade in the inspector’s office.

“Now can you please tell me what’s going on?” John asked.

Lestrade leaned forward at his desk. “Sherlock tried to shoot a man, then nearly beat the bloke to death.”

John gave a half-hearted chuckle, “You’re joking, right?”

“John, this guy looks so bad even his mum wouldn’t be able to recognize him.”

“But, this doesn’t make any sense. This isn’t right. Who was the guy? I can’t even imagine what would drive Sherlock to do something like this.”

“Sherlock told me himself that he did it. Said it had to do with a client.”

“A client?” John asked. “What client?”

“He said it was a client. A woman who had a night out, the bartender kept the drinks flowing, maybe even slipped her something. When she was too plastered to walk straight he offers to see her home and then he assaults her.”

John leaned over with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned.

“Sorry, did I miss something?” Lestrade asked.

“There’s no client. It’s Mol—it’s Molly.”

“What?”

“It’s Molly Hooper.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his hands on top of his head.

“Oh, fuck.”

After a few moments of silence between them, Lestrade finally found his voice.

“Why didn’t she come to me? Why didn’t she tell someone?”

“Ashamed, perhaps? I don’t know. What I do know now is that Molly was keeping many secrets and while she was a part of Sherlock’s suicide hoax she was also mourning the loss of him in a different way. I mean, dammit, Greg! We were all going through our own hell and we shut ourselves off from one another and that’s not what friends do!”

“You’re right. I mean, I would see her at Bart’s and say hi, how are you, but we never really talked. Bollocks. Tell me, how did Sherlock figure all this out?”

“The tattoo.”

“The tattoo? You mean Molly’s tattoo?”

“Molly’s tattoo is on her right hip. Obviously not something everyone gets to see. I saw it when I delivered William. However, Sherlock doesn’t know Molly has a son, therefore she had to think of a reason why I would have seen her tattoo. Her story had too many details though, Sherlock thought, and he deduced that while the part about me was a lie, the rest couldn’t be. He must have worked out where to find Reggie and you know the rest.”

“Hold on. Two things—first, Sherlock doesn’t even know that Molly had a baby while he was gone? And if Molly’s tattoo is on her hip, how in bloody hell did Sherlock know about it?”

John looked up at Lestrade incredulously, waiting for him to put two and two together.

“Jesus Christ!” And there it is, John thought. “Sherlock was boffing Molly? Holy—really?”

“Not on a regular basis, no, but the night before he disappeared.”

“And that sod doesn’t even know? Christ!”

At that moment Lestrade’s office door opened and Mycroft Holmes strolled in.

Closing the door behind him, he asked, “What has my little brother done this time?”

“Do you want the long version or the short?” John asked.

“Short will do. He sent me a text early this morning. I can fill in the rest. I’m also rather good at deduction, especially where my dear brother is concerned.”

“Sherlock found out that Molly Hooper was sexually assaulted and nearly killed the man.”

“I’d hardly call him a man,” Lestrade mumbled.

“Molly,” Mycroft said, “the more palatable of my brother’s indiscretions.”

“You knew about Molly?” John asked.

“Of course I did. I picked him up that morning from her flat and he practically reeked of it.”

“Sorry?” John said, “He what? Nope. Never mind.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a knowing look.

“And, yes, I also know about William. That was merely simple deduction. Now that everyone knows all the little secrets between Sherlock and Ms. Hooper, let us discuss the matter at hand.

“CCTV shows that Mr. Van Camp was himself the perpetrator of an assault on a young lady at 2:47 a.m. behind the pub where he is employed. The young lady’s screams for help were heard by a Good Samaritan who pulled Van Camp off of her, and a bit over zealously punched him and gave him a few swift kicks for good measure. The young lady and her savior will shortly be giving their statements at the police station in Bethnal Green. The young lady managed to scratch Mr. Van Camp during the assault upon her. Tests will confirm Mr. Van Camp’s DNA was found under her nails. These results will also link Mr. Van Camp to three unsolved sexual assault cases.

“Furthermore, Sherlock was in Dublin at the time of the attack. This can be corroborated by his boarding pass on flight 837 leaving Dublin at 5:45 and arriving at 7:10. Sherlock returned to his flat at approximately 7:45. I believe you arrived at 8:17, Inspector?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Lestrade mumbled, staring at Mycroft absolutely dumbfounded.

“Now, I believe it goes without saying that the discussion among the three of us in this office never happened, nor did anything that Sherlock may have said to you in his flat, Inspector.”

John and Lestrade looked at one another. John had no qualms with Mycroft’s intervention because he had no qualms with Sherlock’s actions. He would have done the same for Mary or Molly. But, Lestrade was in a very different kind of position. Though he was Molly’s and Sherlock’s friend and a crime had been committed against Molly, Sherlock’s retaliation was also a crime and Lestrade was charged with upholding the law.

Lestrade cleared his throat, “Mr. Holmes, thank you for coming down this morning. I know you are a busy man. I also apologize for the mix up. I hope you understand that we were just doing our jobs and following our leads. Obviously we were a bit quick to arrest your brother before all evidence was gathered. He’ll be released immediately.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m glad to accept your apologies, Inspector.”

“Another thing, though,” Lestrade said quietly, “what about Molly? I mean, Christ, she was—well, do we tell her that we know? Or about Van Camp?”

John spoke up, “Well, I think perhaps it’s best if we don’t say anything—that we know anything. If and when Molly wants to tell us, then we’ll support her then. But, perhaps,” he looked up at Mycroft, “Van Camp’s arrest could figure prominently in the media. May give her peace of mind?”

“Yes, I think so,” Mycroft replied. He stood. “Dr. Watson, could I offer you a ride to Baker Street or your flat?”

“Yes, thank you,” John answered. He stood and extended his hand to Lestrade. “Greg, drinks soon?”

“Yeah, mate.”

As John followed Mycroft out of the office Lestrade called out, “John?”

“Yes?”

“Just one last thing that’s been bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

“What kind of tattoo is it?”

John chuckled and shook his head as he closed the door behind him.


End file.
